


A Fierce Need

by bethbek



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Addict!Sherlock, Bottom!Sherlock, Domestic, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, M/M, gaaaaay, sherlock you little shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-11-29 10:34:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/685953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bethbek/pseuds/bethbek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John have always had undeniable sexual tension, it was really only a matter of time. But when Sherlock starts experimenting in strange ways it tests both their wits and strengths.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John jolts awake sweaty and huffing, the images of guns and dying comrades still fresh in his mind. He runs his fingers through his damp hair, trying to relax his breathing. The clock on the nightstand glows 2:41 am.

After about an hour of lying awake and staring at the ceiling he decides to make a cup of tea to help him back into his slumber. He pulls his thick bath robe over his bare torso and red y fronts, his nipples stiffen against the frigid air. He pads down the stairs as quietly as he possibly can, but the old steps creak under his weight. 

"Nightmare?" Sherlocks low, barritone voice resonates in the silent darkness.

"Jesus fuck!" John exlaims almost tumbling down the final step, his heart thumping, "You scared the shit out of me!"

"Well, I hope you don't mean that literally." He's curled up on the couch, knees craddled into his chest. 

John simply rolls his eyes, retreating to the kitchen to put the kettle on. He pulls a box of Earl Grey out from the cupboard, and places two mugs on the counter.

"No, no, not that," Sherlock appears at Johns side returning the tea to its home. "Black tea does nothing for inducing sleep. Chamomile on the ther hand..." he drawls, placing a different box into Johns hand.

"Oh, I didn't know."

"Most people don't."

Sherlock leans back against the counter, wearing nothing but his jim-jam bottoms. Their eyes interlock, and John subconciously licks his bottom lip.

"So, erm, why," John breaks the tension, "what are you doing awake?"

"My mind won't shut up."

"Does it ever?" he scoffs.

"Only for very special occasions."

The harsh squeel from the kettle sounds. The pair prepare their tea and settle down on the couch together.

"So what is the magical trigger that silences your brain?"

Sherlock smirks over at John, the corner of his mouth twitches.

"Alright," John sighs, "I get it; deep dark secret, right?"

"Was it the war?" Sherlock changes the subject.

"Hmm?"

"Your nightmare. It was the war, was it not?"

"Yeah, every bloody night since I've gotten back. Most nights I can coax myself back to sleep."

"Tell me about it," he requests, taking a sip of the steaming beverage. 

"Maybe some other time, " John mutters, looking down at his hands in his lap. 

Sherlock reaches up and traces his fingers over the collar of Johns robe.

"May I?" he asks, eyeing Johns shoulder. Without vocal response, John slips his left side out from the covering layer. Sherlock follows the scar with his finger tips, analytical yet tender. He reaches around Johns back, looking for an exit wound. 

"How long until the bullet was removed?"

"About three days," Johns answers. 

"It got infected."

"If they hadn't taken it out when they had I could have died from blood poisoning."

"It's beautiful."

"What?"

"The scar. The way the skin was torn," Sherlock mumbles, his hand still on Johns chest, "It branches out in the most magnificent way, creating an almost exploding effect. It's a rare occurance, scars like these, they'll only form like this with a very precise angle of entry."

"Oh, well then, thank the guy who shot me," John snickers.

Sherlck snorts in return, retrieving his hand. They sip their tea in a comfortablt silence.

"Do you have any scars?" John inquires.

"A few, yes."

"Any nasty ones?"

Sherlocks lips curl up into a quirky half smile, "No, mine are much more common place. Most I've aquired in experimental mishaps."

The two go on like this for a long while, exchanging stories behind their old wounds, until they nod off to sleep as the sun rises, Sherlocks head on Johns chest.

John stirs and finds Sherlock on top of him, rising and falling with his breaths. For a moment he does nothing but gander down upon his tranquil face, the late morning light bouncing off of the sharp angles of his bone structure.

Johns eyes widden as he notices the clock on the wall.

"Oh, _shit!_ I'm going to be late!" He moves to get up, forcing the sleepy man atop of him back to conciousness.

"John?"

"ARGH! I've got to go, Sherlock!" he growls whilst gathering papers.

"John."

"Oh, my god, I've probably got patients waiting and-"

_"John!"_

_"WHAT?!"_

"It's Saturday."

John freezes on the spot, trying to find the date in his groggy mind.

"Oh.." he sighs, "Well then. How could I forget that?"

"Because you're an idiot," Sherlock grins.

"Right." John smiles down at the topless, messy haired Sherlock, "Well, um, do you want some breakfast?"

"Please. I haven't eaten in about sixty hours."

"Do you think, maybe, that's why you can't sleep?"

 _"Dull,"_ he sighs. 

They saunter into the kitchen and prepare their meal, side by side. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

"Sherlock, get out of bed."

"No," he growls from under the covers.

"Yes! We need to go! You don't even have to get dressed properly, they just want you to come."

"We don't _need_ to go anywhere."

"It's not even a block away."

_"Hmpf."_

"But it's your birthday! And you literally have not gotten up all day."

"Was there a point to that statement?"

"Oh my god, why do you always have to be so _difficult?!_ C'mon, we can do anything you want afterwards, just come for at least an hour."

"I want to stay here with you. There's nothing out there for me, on Earth."

"You're being a child," John sighs exasperatedly, "You know what, fine. You stay here all by yourself and mope. I'll go meet our friends for a pint and we'll have a _bloody brilliant_ time without you." 

"Fine."

_"Fine!"_

And with a puff of the chest and a perturbed wave of the hand John stomps out of the room, slamming the door behind him. As soon as Sherlock hears the front door open and close again he flies from his bed and to the window in the sitting room, buck naked. He watches as John walks down the street towards the pub on the corner.

John settles in next to Molly Hooper and Greg Lestrade, both of whom look disheartened at the absence of the detective. Just as John is about to explain, a very dishevelled Sherlock comes blundering into the pub, dressed in nothing but his bed sheet. 

"You have got to be _kidding_ me," John snarls into Sherlocks ear as he joins them. 

"Um, happy birthday Sherlock," Molly sqeaks.

"Erm, yeah, mate. Happy birthday," adds Greg.

"Pants?" John inquires.

"Nope."

"No, of course not."

"Um, you're in bed sheet," Molly states.

"Yes, you are absolutely right!" Sherlock smirks. 

"But _why?"_ Greg asks. 

"Because John here informed me that clothes were optional."

Both pairs of quizical eyes shoot to John, "Oh, _no!"_ he starts, "I never said that!"

"Yes, you did, and I quote; 'you don't even have to get dressed properly'."

"That is _not_ what I meant and you know it, Sherlock!"

"Hardly."

John rubs his temples with his finer tips, trying to calm his aggrivated breaths.

"Um, _sir?"_ a young man addresses Sherlock, "This is a public place, and, erm, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"Right," says John, "saw that coming."

Sherlock floats to the door, a grin on his face. John offers the table an apologetic smile before following him out.

 

 

"Oh, you are just so _fucking_ pleased with yourself, aren't you?" John huffs back at 221B Baker Street. Sherlock ignores him as he slinks back into his bedroom, John on him like a shadow. "Do you _try_ to embarass us? Or just me?"

Again Sherlock does not respond, he only glaces over some books on a shelf.

"God dammit, Sherlock! _Listen to me!"_ and in a swift movement John whips the sheet off of him, revealing a very white, very naked, and very flummoxed Sherlock.

Sherlock does not attempt to cover himself, he merely inhales a calming breath and straightens his back. Johns cheeks go red as his eyes fix on Sherlocks exposed crotch.

"I am listening to you!" Sherlock says firmly, taking a step towards John, "And no, I do not try to embarass you, or us. I hate birthdays, alright? And besides, there's no point in celebrating it, no point for prosiac gifts, or expensive, cumbersome, barely-edible pub food." He takes a few more steps towards John before adding sofly, "I don't like celebrating my birthday because I always get my hopes up, and every year I do disapointment slaps me in the face. Every year theres always one thing, one _special_ thing, I want to do or recieve, things I make obvious to people around me, but every year I go to the zoo, or Ikea, or get oven mitts."

 _"Ikea?"_ John asks, eyebrow arched.

"My ninth, Mycrofts idea."

"I'm sorry, alright. I just thought it would be fun, the four of us."

"Perfectly normal assumption."

"So what is it?"

"So what is what?" wonders Sherlock.

"The _special thing_ this year."

"Nothing." he sighs.

"Oh, no. There's got to be something, tell me."

"No-"

"Tell me!"

 _"John,_ n-"

"Tell me!"

 _"You!"_ John is taken aback as the word hangs in the air, eyes locked with Sherlocks as he continues, "It's you, ok? Are you happy now?"

"Er, yo- _Me!?"_

"Yes."

"Um, how eactly-"

Sherlock closes the gap between them and raises his hand, grazing his thumb over Johns cheek bone.

"Like you don't know," Sherlock purrs. 

Sherlock leans down, and places a delicate and inquisitive kiss onto Johns before pulling away. He's about to turn when John catches him by the wrist, spinning him back around and pulling his face back to his. John kisses Sherlock with great intensity, gliding his hand up Sherlocks bare back before nestling into his hair. Sherlock grabs onto Johns hips, stepping back and falling onto the bed, pulling him down atop of him. Their breaths are hot and heavy as Sherlock reaches for the hem of Johns jumper before tugging it up over his head. Johns lips move down to Sherlocks neck as his hands fiddle with the flies of Johns trousers, yanking them off accompanied by his pants. John pins Sherlocks hands above their heads as he grinds their hips together, coaxing small wayward moans from Sherlock. The pair of cocks stiff and throbbing.

"So, the first night, when you said you weren't gay, you lied?" John huffs against the tender skin of his neck.

"No, I never said that, I said I was uninterested."

"So, what changed?"

"Everything."

Sherlock pulls Johns mouth back up to meet his. 

"Ugh, hold on, wait here." Sherlock mumbles slipping out from underneath John, and he walks into the toilet, returning a moment later with a condom and a packet of lube.

"It's weird," John says as Sherlock rebounds back into bed, "I wouldn't have thought you owned any."

"Well, I'm not a neanderthal." He hands the tiny packets to John.

"No, no, it's not that, I just never thought you even had sex."

"It is a rarety." 

 John slicks up his fingers and inserts one into Sherlock, who in turn clenches at the touch before relaxing into it. He works him, twisting and turning, exploring, seeing which spot evokes which noise, before adding another, and then another.

"Oh, just _hurry up!"_ Sherlock rumbles. 

And with no hesitation John aligns his hips and pushes in slowly and deeply, causing Sherlocks hand to make fists, snatching at the covers. Sherlock wraps his legs around the back of Johns thighs, his toes curling. They are both so wound and on edge that with only a few snaps of Johns hips they're both coming, gasping and grunting. 

John collapses on top of Sherlock, his nose nuzzled into his neck. The lay like this, trying to catch their breaths, sweat glistening on their skin. 

"I never would have thought that you and I would do _this."_ breahted John.

"That's because you're an idiot." They chuckle, arms wraped around one another. 


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock sits in his usual chair, his fingers tapping against the arm rest and his feet fluttering to an out of time rhythm.

"What do normal people _do_ all day?" he sniffs.

John, without removing his eyes from his paper, replies, "Watch telly, go out, anything really."

"Trite. Why are people so mundane?"

"Because we just are, Sherlock."

"John, I'm bored."

"Wow, really, I had no idea." he said in a mono-tone voice.

"Entertain me."

"I'm busy."

"Reading the Islington Gazette? _Please."_ Sherlock swipes the paper from Johns hands and throws it into the burning fire.

 _"Really,_ Sherlock?"

"I'm _bored."_ Sherlock twitches.

"Then _do something!"_

John glares at Sherlock and Sherlock gapes back, until he leaps from his perch and stradles John who is in utter shock in the midst of the brouhaha. Sherlocks lips and tongue and teeth fumble around Johns neck and his hands fiddle with the buttons on his jeans.

"Sherlock!" John huffs, in both frustration and excitement, "What has gotten _into_ you?"

"Nothing, I'm fine," sherlock pants.

Sherlock whips Johns shirt from his back, his lips fumbling over Johns, their kissing wet and sloppy. 

"Sherl-" John gasps, "Should we go to the bedroom?" _  
_

"No. Here is good."

"Sherlock."

_"What?"_

_"Lube."_

Sherlock groans with impatience as he bounds towards the bathroom, half naked. John stands and easily strips from his remaining clothes. Sherlock races back and slams his body into him, clawing and grabbing John all over, before practically ripping his own jim-jam bottoms off himself. The pair fall to the floor ungracefuly and with a loud thump, John on top.

 _"Oh, just fuck me."_ Sherlock purrs, before flipping over onto his front, arse stuck up against Johns hips. John kneels and squeezes the bottle, a wet puddle filling his hand before stroking his hard twitching cock, obscene noises sounding along with their eager panting. Sherlock raises his arse higher and closer to John who grabs hold of his hips and pushes a finger inside. This causes Sherlock to rock back, gaining the entirety of Johns finger, before he adds one more. He curls and spreads them, making Sherlock gasp and grunt, face against the carpet. He removes them both, and aligning his hips he pushes in fully, making Sherlock claw at the floor. John pulls out slightly before snapping his hips forwards once more, their hips rocking together in a hurried unison. With every snap of the hips Sherlock releases a hoarse breath, drooling slightly. Johns fingers dig into Sherlocks hips, leaving bruises, but Sherlock only revels in the slight pain. Sherlock reaches down grasping his own aching cock, hastily yanking at it. It is not long before he is coming all over the red rug, John following suite moments later. 

 

 

"Thank you, Angelo," says Sherlock as he and John are sat by the window. 

"Not a problem, Mr. Holmes. Would you like some drinks?"

"A cola is fine for me," replies John cheerily.

"Whiskey, neat."

"Right away," and Angelo waddles off to the back of the restaurant.

"You're starting early," John notes.

Sherlock sniffs, "Your point?"

"You usually don't drink."

"Well, I also usually don't get rug burn on my face from being fucked from behind either," he mumbles just as Angelo returns with their drinks. Johns face goes red and his eyes fall to his lap as Angelo stares at them with wide eyes.

"I'll be right back with your usual order."

 _"Really?"_ John hisses as they're left alone once more.  

"Sorry, I didn't see him."

 _"Bullshit._ You see everything." 

"Quite right, too," he smirks.

"You're such a prat," John giggles.

"True, but I'm your prat."

"Also true." John reaches uder the table and rests his hand on Sherlocks thigh.

Their food arrives and they thank Angelo once more. John is almost done his meal when he notices Sherlock has barely touched his.

"When was the last time you ate?" he inquires.

"Not sure." 

 _"Eat,_ Sherlock."

"Not hungry."

_"EAT."_

Sherlock rolls his eyes and forces down a few mouthfuls.

"When was the last time you slept?" 

"Is this an interrogation?" Sherlock sighs.

"No, of course not. You just look a bit _off_ is all."

"I'm fine, John."

"You sure?"

 _"Yes."_ he snaps.

"Ok, then."

"Can we go."

"I'm still eating."

"I want to go," he persists. John ignores him, focused on his dish. Sherlock tilts the side of his own, sending it sliding to the floor. It meets the tile with a loud clash, all eyes turning to fix on them.

_"I want to go."_

_"Sherlock!"_

Angelo scurries towards them.

"I am so sorry," John apologizes whilst going over to the mess.

"It is no worry, I'll get someone to clean it up."

Without a word Sherlock saunters out the door and John has to jog to catch up.

 _"Why,_ Sherlock?!" he puffs as he struggles to keep up with Sherlocks pace. 

"Because I wanted to leave and you ignored me."

"Why is it so imprtant to you that we leave? You promised me a nice night!"

"Yes, well."

"One of these days, you're going to be the death of me."

"Oh, don't be dramatic."

"Dramatic? _Dramatic?!_ You're the _king_ of dramatic!"

The two trudge up the stairs to 221B, Sherlock heads straight for his room. He slams the door behind him, and John sighs as he hears it being locked.

 

 

 

"Do you know where the hoover is?" John asks.

"Cupboard. Why?" Sherlock sniffs.

"I'm doing an expiriment." 

 _"Really?"_ Sherlocks says excitedly.

 _"No,_ you idiot. I want to hoover the floor."

"Oh, right, well, stay out of my bedroom."

"Why? I always hoover yours."

"Well, don't this time."

"Why?"

"Because I said so." Sherlock snarls.

"God, _fine!"_ John eyes Sherlock quizically who is fiddling with pocket knife.

 

John drags the machine back down the stairs from his bedroom, Sherlocks presence absent from the sitting room. 

"Sherlock?" he calls. No answer. He walks through the kitchen to the shut bedroom door.

 _"Sherlock?"_ he calls again, rapping on the closed door. Silence.

He turns the knob and enters, he's not there, but the place is a mess. Books scattered, sheets in a ball on the floor, and a few broken vials on the floor. John peers into the en suite, the mirror has been taken off the wall and is lying flat over the sink, white powder spread across it. 


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock comes bounding up the stairs of 221B Baker Street.

"John!" he calls out, two take away boxes in his hands. "Come down!" he yips up the stairs towards Johns bedroom, "I've brought home some Chinese." He places the hot food on the kitchen table setting out plates and cutlery.

Sherlock's heart drops to the pit of his stomach as he hears his own bedroom door creak open, followed by slow, inauspicious footsteps. He turns around cautiously to find John leaning against the wall, the most thwarted look vitiating his features.

"Don't look at me like that," Sherlock murmers, breaking the constrained silence.

"What the _fuck_ are you thinking, Sherlock? Have you not been down this road before?"

"John, I - I just wanted-"

" _TO WHAT?_ What could you _possibly_ want to know, or feel, or whatever?! Do you realize how many people I've seen die because of this shit?" his eyes water.

Although Sherlock seldom showed it; he absolutely detested disapponting John. His eyes fall to his toes, a pit of guilt knots his stomach, and he can feel his throat tightening.

What John didn't know was the fact that Sherlock hadn't touched the stuff in days, he just hadn't bothered to clean up. Sherlock discovered after his slight bender that he hated the way the cocaine made him feel, his brain was rapid enough as it is and the drugs only seemed to speed up his thought processes making his mind palace completely unbearable. 

"It was nothing more than an experiment-" Sherlock began.

"OH! _AN EXPERIMENT!_ Well, no harm done then!" John condescends.  

 _"Would you let me finish!"_ he barks in retort. 

Johns adams apple bobs, shifting on the spot he clenches his jaw. 

"I only wanted to know how it felt first hand," Sherlock continues, moving closer to John, "and no, I've never been down this road before. The only time I've ever been on drugs before this was secondary school, and it was nothing more than some aderol and antidepressants." Sherlock stands right in front of John and slips his hand around his. 

Johns expression softens, "Antidepressants?" he asked in a hushed tone.

"Yeah, well, you know, people have a hard time tolerating me. Now," he walks back to the table, "would you _please_ come eat dinner with me?"

John rubs his face in his hand, sighs, and slowly nods, "It's over, right? With the drugs?"

"Cross my unexistant heart."

John joins Sherlock at the table, "Well, we both know that's not exactly true."

Sherlock smirks over at his flat-mate, "I'm famished," he mumbles, shoving noodles into his mouth. 

 

 

They run down the dark damp alley as fast as their legs can carry them, Sherlock padding along a few paces in front of John. Johns hands fly to protect his head as bullets come whizzing past their ears. Thank goodness for them this thug isn't a particularily good shot. Sherlock trips over a misplaced cobblestone, falling hard onto the ground with an audible smack. John peddles over to him and taking him by the armpits helps him to his feet, the convict hot on their tails. They stagger back into their panicked pace as another bullet ricochets off the stone wall. Sherlock takes a sharp turn, snatching Johns coat collar, he drags him with him down the tight corridor. Before they can back-peddle they've realized their dire mistake. It's a dead end. They whip around just as their assailant trots towards them, gun pointed and poised to fire. Sirens blare in the far distant.  Sherlocks eyes are locked on the criminal, and if looks could kill his would be fatal.

"Well, well, well. We're in trouble now aren't we?" the thug mocks, "The Great Sherlock Holmes and his loyal pet. I must say it is going to be a pleasure killing you both, but who first? How 'bout you..." he says as he points his gun towards Johns head.

John looks over at Sherlock, if he can can only see one more thing before an eternity of darkness he wants it to be Sherlock. In a split second, before Johns brain could comprehend what exactly was happening, he's shoved sideways, his head slamming into the brick wall and a gunshot fills the stale air. Johns vision is blurred and he has a hard time trying to stay on his feet, a concusion setting in. Sherlock is lying on the ground, he grips his right shoulder as blood pumps from the bullet wound. The gunman saunters over to Sherlock and raises the gun inches from his face. As he wraps his head around the situation, John desperately tries to get to Sherlocks aid, but his legs refuse to work and all he can do is throw himself down on the wet cobblestones a few feet away from his best friend. He reaches out, his hand inches from Sherlocks, desperation filling him. Sherlock looks over at his struggling friend, tears streaming down Johns face, and stretches to take in the familiar hand. Both their hearts stop. 

**_Click._ **

Relief fills John and a grin spreads over Sherlock dishevelled face. The perpetrator is out of bullets and is now panicking. He is just about to sprint the other way when two police cars speed up, blocking the exit of the corridor.

"Hands up!" yells Lestrade, gun pointed. 

The man drops his gun with a clatter and Lestrade cuffs him. "You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be held against you in the court of law," he recites as he guides him towards the car, "You have the right to an attorney, if you can not afford an..."

John and Sherlock sit in the back of the parked ambulance. John's wrapped in a small red blanket and holding and icepack against his fuzzy head as Sherlock gets bandaged. After they are both cleaned up Lestrade personally drives them home.

"You're an idiot," John snarls in the back seat, Lestrade glances at them through the rearview mirror.

 _"Excuse me?"_ Sherlock inquires.

"You heard me. _A complete idiot."_

 _"Ugh_ , don't start." 

Lestrade pulls up to the curb and all three hop out. Mrs. Hudson steps out through the door relieved they're home, but the two merely saunter straight past her, John following Sherlock, bickering the whole way. 

"What's happened?" she squeaks as Lestrade approaches her.

"They're fine, a bit injured, but fine. But now they appear to be having a bit of a domestic row."

"Oh," she nods understandingly. 

"I'm greatful, _I am,"_ continues John in the sitting room of 221B, "but you're a _twat!_ You could have died!"

"But I didn't."

"I swear to god, Sherlock. Two - _two_  centimeters to the left and you would have!" _  
_

"Can we not do this?" Sherlock sighed.

"Are you _trying_ to get yourself killed? Because it sure seems like that lately."

"John," Sherlock says softly, "of course not. Why would you even suggest that?"

 _"Oh,_ no you're right, I'm sorry. I forgot, you'd never kill yourself because nobody loves the _Great_ _Sherlock Holmes_ more than Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock stands staring over at John, his accusation stings like a million paper cuts. He shoves past him and tromps down the hall, slamming his bedroom door behind him.

John sighs and squeezes his eyes shut. He regreted it the moment it came spilling out of his mouth. 

 


	5. Chapter 5

John lies curled up alone in Sherlocks bed, the smell of sweat still lingering lightly in the air. He sleeps soundly, his nightmares seemed to have vanished when he started to share a bed with his flat mate. Now he only dreams of Sherlock; his soft blanched skin stretched over those salient cheekbones, his interminably chapped lips skimming down his neck, the animalistic purrs that resonate deep in his throat as he nears climax. They were good dreams, the only good dreams John has ever had, and he treasured them unabashedly. 

Sherlock, dressed in nothing but his pants, slowly pries the bedroom door open, balancing a tray in his slender hand. Two plates holding eggs benedict, bacon, and fresh strawberries sit upon it accompanied by two steaming mugs of coffee. He stands for a moment surveying the scene of John spread out across the silk sheets, purple and blue love bites disseminated over his chest and neck. As he places the tray down on the covers next to his serene lover John rouses from his slumber. 

"What's this then?" he grumbles, rubbing his eyes.

"I made you breakfast," he boasts, standing at the foot of the bed. 

John sits up and leans against the wooden headboard, eyes flickering between the tray and Sherlock, "You? Made this?"

Sherlock nods, face gleaming. 

"As in you actually, properly cooked food?" John raised his eyebrow skeptically.  _"Oooooh,"_ he breathed finally, "I get it. Well, I'll have to go down and thank Mrs. Hudson later on."

Sherlocks brow furrows.

"Oh, c'mon Sherlock. The only thing you can cook is toast, and even then two out of three times it's burned."

"Fine," he says bluntly, offended, even though Mrs. Hudson was indeed the real chef, "I guess I'll just take it away then."

Sherlock reaches to remove the tray but John grabs him by the wrists, tugging him down on top of him. John wraps his arms around Sherlock's neck pulling him closer and nips at Sherlock's lower lip, grazing his tongue over it. 

"You're not going anywhere," he smirks before bringing in his lips once more. "But, really; thank you," John continues as Sherlock settles down beside him, "I appreciate it."

"So, what are the plans for today?" Sherlock asks, shoving a strawberry in his mouth.

"Absolutely nothing. I leave for my conference tomorrow and I want to spend today soley with you."

"And remind me why you have to go?"

"Because my boss wants me to and the company is paying for the whole thing."

"So?"

"So I have to go. It's only for a week, you can manage."

"Hardly."

"Hey," John whispers nuzzling Sherlock's neck, "how 'bout, when I come home, I make it up to you with all the things that make you scream."

"Go on."

John slowly kisses his neck, his tongue darting out grabbing quick tastes of skin. As John rolls over on top of Sherlock the tray and all its contents crashes to the floor.

"I'm not cleaning that up," Sherlock chuckles.

John smirks as he continues to trail his lips and tongue down to Sherlock's collar bone. Sherlock runs his hands through John's hair, eyes fluttering shut as he finds his nipple. He drags his lips down his torso and runs his hand down his front slipping it into his pants, making Sherlock moan. He slips off his boxers and settles in between his thighs, lifting his legs up over his shoulders. He places light kisses on the inside of each thigh before nuzzling into the crook between thigh and member. Sherlock's cock twitches with excitement as John trails his tongue over each testicle and then slides it up Sherlock's shaft. John grazes his hands up Sherlock's toned abs taking his now stiff cock into his mouth wriggling his tongue as he takes him deep to the back of his throat. Small wimpers evade Sherlock as John bobs up and down. His hand flies to his hair, tugging and pulling as he reaches his peak. Those unique purrs quivering Sherlock's vocal chords as John quickens his pace. Sherlock lets out a sharp erratic gasp as he explodes into John's mouth. Panting, Sherlock tries to catch his breath as John swallows, wipping his mouth. 

"Oh, god," Sherlock huffs as John crawls back up to the head board, wraping his arm around Sherlock's shoulders. He places little tender kisses over his cheeks. "Remember that time you couldn't sleep and we had tea?" asks Sherlock.

"The night you felt me up?"

"I didn't feel you up."

"You totally felt me up."

"Anyway, you asked me what was the thing that shut my brain up."

"Mmhmm?"

"Well, that is _exactly_ how you shut my brain up."

"Really? Well, now I know what to do when we have a row," he smirks. 

 

 

For the rest of the day the boys hardly left each others side. They stole gentle caresses every chance they got knowing they wouldn't be able to for quite a while. They made tea, fed each other strawberries and snuggled up on the couch to watch crap telly. The details of what they watched or what they ate is not important though, but the fact that they were inseperable is. They adored each other even though neither vocalized it, but that was okay because it didn't need saying. They knew from all the little ways they treated each other; the way they twiddled their fingers together in the early morning sun as they talked about everything and nothing simutaniously. The way Sherlock sat outside the bathroom door listening to John sing in the shower, something neither used to do. The way John ran the back of his hand over the side of Sherlocks face when he was stressed or worried. It was in these little stolen kisses and embraces that they announced their love for one another, and for a short while everything was congruous. Everything worked and nothing was shitty and broken.

 

 

"Alright, well, I think I've got everything I'm going to be needing," says John, zipping up his suitcase. 

Sherlock stands leaning against the door frame, a smug look stitched on his face.

"Don't go," demands Sherlock, "I get so bloody bored when you're not around. Ordinary people are just so _dull."_

"One week, that's it. One week and I'll be back. Maybe call Greg and see if he's got any sniffing around for you to do."

_"Ugh."_

A light honk of a car horn sounds outside, John see's his taxi idling by the pavement. "Ok, I've got to go."

He hauls his baggage down the stairs, Sherlock watching him as he goes. John walks out the front door, looking back over his shoulder half hoping Sherlock will be there to see him off but knowing he won't be. He shoves his suitcase into the boot and walks around the side to the passenger door. 

"John, _wait!"_

He turns around to find a very determined looking Sherlock striding towards him.

"Sher-"

Sherlock grabs the sides of his face, pulling his lips to meet his own. John could sense an almost air of panic within the kiss, a small knot of worry weilding itself in his gut.

"Don't go," pleads Sherlock in a whisper as he pulls away, eyes baring into Johns.

"Oh, _Sherlock,"_ John lifts his hand and places it over Sherlock which is still placed over his cheek, "I _can't._ Why are you so worked up over this?"

Sherlocks mouth stiffens into a hard line, glancing at his toes he mumbles, "I'm just going to miss you is all."

"Oh, Sherl. I'll miss you too. Now, _I have to go_ , I'm gunna miss my flight."

Sherlock nods, a look of sorrow in his eyes.

John hops into the car, watching as the figure of a rather distraught Sherlock fades from his view.

"Boyfriend?" the cabbie asks, breaking John from his thoughts.

"Hmm? Yeah, something like that..."

 

 

Sherlock sits in the kitchen, hands brought together under his chin, staring at the small parcel on the table. His toes tap inpatiently on the tile floor as he works out every possibility in his mind. He swipes the parcel up into his hands, ripping it open and spilling its contents onto the table. He grabs a spoon and sprinkles some of the white powder into it, after adding water he brings his cigarette lighter underneath and ignites it. The spoons contents bubble slightly before he uses the syringe to suck up the liquid. Using his teeth he tightens the rubber band around his bicep as he pierces his skin with the needle. Fire works spark in his brain as he injects himself, then it's as if everything bad has been wiped from his life, and only a sense of bliss is left in his heart. Looks as if Sherlock has found another way to shut his brain up. 


	6. Chapter 6

For the past four days Sherlock has been completely wasted. Every time he begins to sober up he starts to realize the true extent of his actions so he only shoots more. The heroin takes away all of his problems -- so it seems -- the guilt and self-hatred is swept away in a massive wave of euphoria. He's beginning to feel normal, it slows his thought processes down and he's starting to be able to think like everyone else. And he _loves_ it. He never thought he would, he had only planned on taking it once, out of reach of Johns protective eyes, to see how much it abated his senses. He thought just the once to see, just the once to hate it, and then be done. But it felt _so good,_ like a continual orgasm firing in his senses, engulfing him in pure ecstasy. He felt as if he could do anything, like he could _fly._ He was absolutely jubilant, but it was no more than a facade masking his true feelings, a mask even he couldn't see past. Deep in that brain of his, under the raging sea of addiction lays a small part of subconscious, locked away, that is dreading the day John comes home. Oh, the look on Johns face when he finds out, how on Earth will he react? Will he hit him? Scream abuse? Or simply just leave? But for the moment he couldn't care about anything. 

He sits on the toilet as he injects the last bit of junk into the crook of his arm. His eyes are slightly sunken and starting to purple, his skin becoming frail over his weaning frame. As he removes the needle his eyes fall shut and his head rolls back to lean against the cold wall.

Stumbling into the sitting room he snatches up his phone of the table and makes a call. 

 

 

As the sun retreats over the hazy horizon Sherlock stands in a back alley, scratching at his arms impatiently. 

 _"Oi,_ Holmes." A man with horrendous teeth dressed in a red sweat suit walks towards him. 

"Do you have it?" Sherlock snaps.

"Yea, mate. Me finest shit, _innit._ Comes at a price though."

 _"I don't care._ How much?"

"£75."

Sherlock hands him everything in his wallet before taking the brown paper bag. 

As soon as the dealer is out of view Sherlock opens the parcel and takes a rather large bump up each nostril. He much rather prefers to shoot it but that's a pretty hard thing to do when you're in a dark alley and without a syringe. As he walks through the dark streets he begins to feel antsy, he's bored and doesn't want to go home. He wants to do something he's never done before, go have an adventure. He needs to do something with himself, something to get him moving. 

As he walks into the club the deep bass of the music pumps through his chest. He squeezes past the tightly packed bodies over to the bar. People are everywhere; grinding on the dance floor, making out in dark corners, and whispering in each other’s ears. 

"Whiskey!" he shouts over the music to the bartender. As he pulls out his wallet he finds it empty. 

"Put it on my tab, Chuck," says a voice from behind Sherlock as the bartender goes to fetch the drink. Sherlock turns round to find a tall man with auburn hair and emerald green eyes standing before him.

"Oh, thank you," Sherlock stutters.

"Not a problem, you look like you need that drink," a cheeky half smile spreads across his face, "my name's Patrick by the way."

"Sherlock."

The bartender returns with his drink and Sherlock gulps it down in one go.

"Now," continues Patrick, "how ‘bout a dance?"

"Oh, no, thank you. I've got a- um-"

"Boyfriend?"

"Yeah, something like that."

"Well, so do I. C'mon mate, just a dance, that's all," Patrick flashes an almost perfect smile at Sherlock who gives in and lets him drag him to the dance floor.

Sherlock isn't much of a dancer, even when he's sober. The erratic lights flash around them as the pulsing beats radiate through them, hips swaying in time. They go on like this for a few songs, all sweaty and bumping up against each other, uncoordinated, until Sherlock finds himself dizzy and noxious.

"I think I'm gunna be sick," and without another word Patrick takes his arm over his shoulder and guides him to the toilets.

"Just take it easy," sooths Patrick as Sherlock leans over the sink, dry heaving. He takes a cold wet napkin and holds it against his forehead. 

"Thanks," Sherlock mumbles.

"So, what're you on?"

"What?"

"Well, you've got to be on something; you had just the one drink."

"Smack."

"Rough, mate. That shit'll mess with ya. Here, take one of these," he says offering him a small white pill, "it'll help with the nausea."

"Thanks," he says swallowing the pill.

"Now, let's say we get you home, eh?" Sherlock nods, "What's your address?"

"221B Baker Street." 

"Alright, c'mon."

 

 

Patrick and Sherlock ride in the cab, Sherlock completely disoriented. His head is fuzzy and he feels as if his body weighs about 50 stone. Patrick practically has to lift Sherlock out of the cab as they arrive. After a rather difficult ordeal of dragging Sherlock up the stairs Patrick helps him into his bed and he collapses face first onto the covers.

"Let's get some of these clothes off, yea?" whispers Patrick as he removes Sherlock’s shoes who mumbles something incoherent. Sherlock is completely aware of his surroundings; it's almost as if he's trapped inside of a faulty body which refuses to work. He feels embarrassed and ashamed that this stranger is currently tucking him in. 

As Patrick goes to remove Sherlock boxers he tries to say no but it simply comes out as gurgles and grunts.

"It's ok," whispers Patrick, unbuckling his own belt, "everything's gunna be ok."

Panic sets in as Sherlock tries to move, to resist, but his body betrays him and he's stuck where he is. He desperately tries to say stop but his lips are jelly creating no corresponding words. He can only lie there clenching at the covers. 

 

 

Sherlock sobs into his pillow as he hears the front door close. His heart feels as though it's clenched in a ball half its usual size as he chokes on the air trying to pass through to his lungs. His body trembles as his wits slowly begin to return to him. The gouging scratches down his back sting as his muscles twitch. After a dreadfully long time Sherlock’s legs begin to work once more and he rolls himself of the sweaty tattered sheets and into the washroom.

He stands in the shower, shoulders quivering, with his hands placed firmly against the tiles for support. The water rushes in a scalding heat down his back as silent tears roll down his cheeks. He can't be rid of this feeling, this feeling of filth, the repulsion knotted in his gut. No matter what he does he cannot scrub himself of this disgust. So he stands, head bowed, watching the water run red down the drain.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock sits at the kitchen table with a cigarette resting between his fingers, awaiting Johns return.

The flat is spotless; all books in their proper place, no decapitated heads in the refrigerator, and zero trace of drugs. Any remnants of the horrid events that had taken place there over the past week have been swept away.

Sherlock has desperately been trying to purge himself of the junk since that unforgettable and unbearable night, but both his body and his mind have developed a fierce need for it. He’s hidden his small leather pouch in which he keeps his syringe safely tucked away behind the toilet in his bathroom; out of sight and out of mind. All he can do is cut down his dosage, use it as little as possible without going mad, and hopefully John would never find out.

He has _never,_ in his entire life, felt so foolish, helpless, and vile. He never should have touched the stuff in the first place and he knows it. The smoke from his cigarette dances in the dull light as a distant clock ticks obnoxiously, reminding Sherlock that any second now John will walk through that front door to find a different man than the one he had left a week ago.

He hears the door to the apartment click open followed by hurried footsteps tromping up the stairs. He’s home. As John strolls into the flat Sherlock taps his cigarette; sending ash floating down into the ashtray he nicked from Buckingham Palace. John stops abruptly in the doorway, and cocking his head to the side curiously he takes in the scene.

“Sherlock,” he says cautiously, “what’s wrong? You never smoke.”

Sherlock snuffs the cigarette out and smiles as best he can up at John, the purple circles under his eyes more prominent than ever.

“Nothing,” he sighs, “It’s just been a long week.”

“You sure?” John says sternly. He knows Sherlock better than anyone else in the entire world, even better than his own brother, and he can sense something is off.

“Of course.”

“Did you sleep _at all_ while I was gone?”

“Not really, no.” This is the first thing Sherlock has said that hasn’t been a lie.

_“Why?”_

“Missed you too much.” Partly true.

John mulls this answer over in his mind a few times before deeming it sufficient. 

“Alright then,” a small crooked smile forms on Johns face as he closes the distance between them. Standing behind Sherlock he leans down wrapping his arms around his chest and he places a small kiss on the crook between his neck and shoulder. Sherlock flinches at the small touch; he’s had no physical contact with anyone since. . . John starts to pull away but Sherlock reaches up and pulls his arms back round him. _This is different_ , he has to remind himself, _this is John_.

“You sure you’re alright?” John mumbles against Sherlock’s skin.

“Yeah, fine.”

“Well, why don’t you and I,” he places another kiss on his neck, “find our way down to your bedroom so I can keep that promise I made you.”

Sherlock allows himself to be dragged off down the hallway and he tries to settle his nerves.

“C’mere you,” whispers John as he gently pushes Sherlock down onto the bed. He leans over and places a kiss on Sherlock’s chapped lips before removing both their shirts. Sherlock shudders as John’s fingertips graze over his skin, but unlike all the other times he shudders out of panic. John brings his lips to Sherlock’s once more and nips at his bottom lip. Sherlock jerks away as the image of Patrick’s teeth latching onto his skin erupts in his mind.

“Sherlock?” John starts as worry fills his eyes. Sherlock, taking him by the neck, pulls him down atop of him. _I can do this, I can do this,_ he repeats over in his mind. John burrows his face into Sherlock’s neck, gliding his tongue over his skin. As John drags his fingernails down over his chest Sherlock’s hands latch onto John’s forearms, Patrick grating his own nails down his back flash into memory. John mistakes this sign of alarm as one of passion and rolls over dragging Sherlock on top. Johns hand fly to the zippers of Sherlock’s jeans as Sherlock crouches over him, trying most ardently to stop trembling. He wants this, he really does, but the man has been scarred in every sense of the word. As John traces his hands up Sherlock’s back he can feel the deep incisions left by fingernails, the spacing of each almost aligning with his own. But they were not there when he left. His heart stops. Grabbing onto Sherlock’s shoulders he throws him backward off the bed with all the force he can muster.

“What the _fuck?!”_ John cries as he looks disbelieving down at the man on the floor.

“Did you,” he continues, voice breaking, “did you _sleep with somebody else?”_

Sherlock sits there in silence, a look of utmost pleading in his watery eyes. He opens his mouth as if he’s about to speak but his throat closes and no sound is able to escape. He drops his head and stares at the floor in front of him.

“ _You bastard!_ You _did,_ didn’t you?!” John bites his bottom lip as a tear falls over his cheek. He snatches up his shirt from the foot of the bed and hastily covers his exposed torso before he scrambles off the bed and storms out of the room. Sherlock flinches as the door closes with a bang that shakes the whole room.

John bounds up the stairs, and as he reaches his own room a sob of pure despair escape his lips. He leans back against his closed door and slowly melts down into the carpet. His heart feels like someone is trying to rip it from his possession. The betrayal and torment currently occupying the dire pit in chest ruptures through every cell in his body like a paroxysm.

 

 

After about an hour and a half of being curled up on the floor, John needs answers. As he looks into the mirror his eyes are red and swollen, he cleans himself up as much as he can before heading back downstairs. Sherlock’s presence is absent from both the sitting room and kitchen so John makes his way back down the hall.

“Sherlock?” his voice croaks as he opens the door. As he steps into the bedroom he can hear the shower running in the en suite. Sherlock never takes more than five minutes in the shower, he thinks them a waste of time, so John sits himself down on the dishevelled bed and waits.

Ten minutes pass and Sherlock still has not come out. John raps lightly on the door.

No answer.

He knocks again.

No answer.

As he lets himself in he finds Sherlock still dressed in his unbuttoned jeans sitting on the floor of the shower. His knees are cradled into his chest, the water pours down over his legs, and he seems to be completely unaware of Johns entry; he merely stares off absently. John sighs and saunters over to him, without removing any of his own clothing he shuffles down next to him.

 _“Christ,”_ he murmurs as the ice cold water hits his skin like needles. He reaches above their heads and twists the hot water knob. Sherlock just sits there, shivering, staring straight ahead. Silent tears start to cascade down his ghastly pale face. After a moment of John squinting over at him, wailing sobs come fleeting out of Sherlock.

Something is very wrong, John has never seen Sherlock shed a tear let alone disintegrate like this. The water reaches a more bearable temperature as John wraps his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders who in turn clings to him franticly. He shudders against him as John soothingly strokes his sopping hair.

“C’mon,” John whispers, “let’s get you into some dry clothes and put the kettle on, hmm?”

Sherlock nods against John’s shoulder before John helps him back up onto his feet.

 

 

Sherlock sits at the kitchen table wrapped up in a fuzzy blanket, his head resting in his hands, as John places two steaming mugs on the table. He rests his hand reassuringly on Sherlock’s shoulder and grazes his thumb back and forth in a calming way.

“What _happened_ to you, Sherlock?”

And with a sigh, Sherlock spills the entire story of the staggering past week. 


	8. Chapter 8

“Oh my god, _Sherlock,”_ whispers John as he wraps his arms around his shuddering shoulders. John can’t help but blame himself; if he had been there to stop him, or if he could have done something different to keep him away from the stuff this wouldn’t have happened.

    _“I- I- didn’t”_ Sherlock wheezed, trying to force the words past his constricted throat.

    “Shhhh. It’s ok, everything is gunna be ok. We’re going to get you better, alright?”

    On the inside John is absolutely livid. The fact that John, as Sherlock’s best friend, flat mate, and lover, asked him to stay away from any and all sort of drug use and the minute he left him alone Sherlock meddles with the worst of them. He feels so betrayed and his heart is shattered but what devastates him even more is the thought of Sherlock being abused by a complete stranger in the bed they share. It is clear to him that Sherlock is utterly tormented so he does the only thing he can to comfort him. Love him.

    Sherlock sits engulfed in John’s arms as John runs the back of his fingers lovingly down Sherlock’s cheek. He places soft kisses on his forehead and at the corners of his mouth. John needs for Sherlock to know that he cares, even though, perhaps, he will never realize just how much. Sherlock needs to know that he is the one person who won’t abandon him or give him a cold shoulder because he is _“different”._

    “I want you to get help, alright?” John whispers now that Sherlock is a bit calmer, “Will you please go to a clinic? I’ll come with you if you need but you need to get this shit out of your system. Will you go?”

    Sherlock looks up at him from red puffy eyes.

    “For me?” adds John.

    Sherlock’s eyes sink to his lap as he nods his head in acceptance. He didn’t want to go, but he was tired of distressing John.

    _I can do this on my own,_ Sherlock thinks to himself, _I don’t need help from those so called doctors and therapists. All I need to do is continue to lower my dosage and soon enough I won’t need it. I_ don’t _need it._

            

 

    “So you need to come in twice a week for medication and at least once a week for therapy, but if you feel that you are in need of more support you are allowed to come in more often.” A chubby doctor with cat eye bifocals and an eyebrow piercing drones on in front of them.

    John sits eagerly on the edge of his seat; paying close attention to every detail she recites. Sherlock glances up at the ceiling ignoring them both.

    “Now we are not baby sitters, you must understand. It is entirely up to you to come in for your appointments; no one is going to chase you down if you don’t show up. Is that clear, Mr. Holmes?”

    “ _Hmmm?_ Oh, yeah.”

    “Good.” John says sternly as they get up to leave.

 

    “Holmes,” calls out the nurse at the counter. She hands him a small paper cup with 2 pills in it.   

    “What are they?” asks John as Sherlock swallows them.

    “Methadone and a simple laxative. Crowley.” She calls out to the next patient on the list.  

    “Alright,” says John as they walk out of the clinic, “Your group therapy is tomorrow at two, do you want me to come?”

    “No, no. I’ll go on my own; I hate thinking of you sitting in a waiting room for me for an hour.”

    “Alright then. Hey, did you notice that doctor had a photo on her bookshelf of her and Molly?”

    “No, I hadn’t.”

    John chuckles, taking this statement as sarcasm but as the truth sinks in his face falls and his stomach knots.

 

 

    A week goes by and Sherlock only goes to one appointment, and you can bet it wasn’t the group therapy. He did go to the first one and he ended up making three people cry before calling the therapist a quack. During the unattended appointments he slinks off and checks himself into a motel for an hour and uses this time to shoot.

    Sherlock has indeed managed to lower his dosage but his need for it is only becoming stronger. Every day he sits at home with John he only fantasizes about his next “appointment”. As every day passes the pedantic, over analyzing man dissipated more and more and this fuzzy headed, sluggish man seems to take his place. John takes notice but is in belief it’s merely side effects to the treatment and soon enough he will start acting like he used to.

    Another week passes and Sherlock tells John that he’s decided to go to one more group therapy session a week. John is jubilant that Sherlock seems to really be determined and enthusiastic about his getting well, but as soon as Sherlock sits down on that enfeebled, stained bed in that dingy room he takes out his small leather pouch in which he keeps his folly.

    By the end of the third week John is getting slightly suspicious about the fact that Sherlock doesn’t seem to be improving but Sherlock keeps reassuring him that these things just take time.   

    John types away on his computer in the sitting room flashing quick glances over at Sherlock who appears to have taken up an extreme interest in a spot on the carpet. He looks back at the artificially lit screen and opens up his email.

_Dear Dr. Watson,_

_As Mr. Holmes’ emergency contact we are obligated to inform you that Mr. Holmes has not attended one of his appointments in over three weeks. Our staff would like to know whether or not Mr. Holmes would be coming in at all from now on._

_Sincerely yours,_

_Dr. Roberta Moran_

        

    “So, tell me;” John breaks the silence as he closes the laptop, “where have you been going for the past few weeks?”

    Sherlock tears his eyes away from the floor. After reading the total anguish spread across John’s face he knows exactly to what he is referring.

    “I’m sorry,” starts Sherlock.

As soon as the words leave his mouth John shakes his head in disbelief. He stands up and begins to pace across the room.

“What the fuck,” he mutters running his hand through his hair.

“I’m sorry, alright?” Sherlock says in a sweet voice that tries to coax John back to him.

“No, you’re not,” he replies with a chuckle even though his face is as hard as brick.

“Fine, I’m not. _I’m not._ Why do you even care so much?”

 _“Because I love you, you insufferable twat!”_ John barks, “Are you truly that _thick?_ Why do think I’m here? Why do you think I’ve stayed with you through all the shit you’ve put me through, because let me tell you something; _anyone else_ would’ve left a _long_ time ago.”

John slinks over to the door to the kitchen and slides down the frame to the cold floor.

“I can’t do this anymore, Sherlock.”

“Don’t say that.” Sherlock says stiffly, _“don’t say that.”_

John rests his head in his hands as tears start to flow down his cheeks.

“Please,” Sherlock whispers as he saunters over to him.

“I need you, ok?” mutters Sherlock. John peers over at him as he lies down on his back beside him. Noticing a slight bulge in his jeans pocket he reaches down and removes the leather pouch. He grips it in his hand and sighs.

“This has got to stop, Sherlock,” mumbles a defeated John, “I can’t deal with this anymore. You have to make a decision; you have to pick one because I refuse to be a part of this anymore.”

Sherlock shifts to sit up facing John. He takes Johns cheek in his hand and wipes away a stray tear with his calloused thumb before bringing him for a hug. Sherlock can feel the pouch pressed up against the small of his back as John clings to him.

John nuzzles into Sherlock’s neck as a wave of relief washes over him. It’s over. It’s done. Everything can finally go back the way it was. To a time where the pair chased criminals down the alley and made tea in the middle of the night.

“I love you,” John whispers.

Slowly, Sherlock reaches around his back and slips the pouch out of John’s grasp.

An agonizing sob explodes from John as he stumbles to his feet and up the stairs. He returns a moment later with a packed bag over his shoulder.

Sherlock sits in silence on the hard floor as he hears the front door slam shut. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys will have the next chapter within the next few days.   
> Sorry it's taken me so long Ive been so hung up on my diploma exams and such.


	9. Chapter 9

It’s been six weeks since John stormed out of Sherlock’s life. Sherlock sits on a bare, dingy mattress in the middle of the sitting room. Whatever bedding he owned was now draped over the windows diming the entire flat into a hazy, bleak pit. Soft, yellow light from the streetlamps outside filtered into the room from cracks between the fabrics, enabling the dust to perform a marvelous ballet, as a ray of light caressing Sherlock’s gaunt face. His pyjama trousers hang loosely on his emaciated frame causing his every rib to be displayed. Although the man has always been fair skinned he was now pale enough to be mistaken for a cadaver much like the ones he used to experiment on. Similar to a raccoon, his eyes were surrounded by a grey-blue bruising, his pupils dilated and rolling back into his skull, and his lips athirst and crusted. Syringes lay on the ground surrounding him alongside belts and rubber bands.

Financially he is broke; he has run his bank account dry because of his fervid hobby. Recently he has taken to selling his possessions to pawn dealers, trying ardently to at least get enough to buy more junk to keep him satisfied. But it has been proving to be an incredibly difficult task; for his dosages have been increasing at an alarming rate. Every time the thick fog starts to evaporate from his groggy mind guilt and self-loathing begin to claw and gnaw at his conscience; of which he is unable to cope. The only things left in the flat are two chairs, a few unsellable nick-knacks, his skull, and his mattress. He has no more to sell.

He lethargically prepares his very last bit of heroin, reveling in the power and intensity as it fires in his once prodigious brain. In a few more hours the effects will fade completely and the hatred will set in. He needed more. Sauntering over to his closet in his barren bedroom he pulls his aubergine dress shirt and an almost clean pair of trousers on before heading off into the night.

 

 

As most would expect, heroin users are not too fond of sharing their prized goods. Sherlock worms his way through the packed dance club. Many wasted and sweaty bodies bump into him; spilling their drinks and slurring. As he hangs around the doors to the toilets, Sherlock flirts and inquires; trying to find someone who is holding and also willing to share. After a tedious amount of  ‘no’s and dirty looks he is about to give up hope until a short, middle-aged man with a hungry look in his eye, leans over to whisper in Sherlock’s ear.

“I’ll give you £30 if you suck me off.”

His breath was hot and moist against Sherlock’s skin, making him uncomfortable and uneasy. He’s disgusted by this proposition; he is a genius, not a prostitute.

“ _Fine,_ have it your way,” the man says before turning to leave.

“Wait!” Sherlock calls reluctantly. He takes a deep breath before turning his eyes up to meet this stranger’s. “Make it 40 and you have a deal.”

The man takes Sherlock by the elbow and guides him into a bathroom stall. He is not gentle, he is not tender. He is belligerent and repulsive. When it is all over Sherlock wipes his mouth whilst the man zips his fly. Sherlock looks over at all the graffiti on the walls as to avoid eye-contact. The man gives him the money and a card with a phone number.

“My name’s Jerry. If you ever find yourself in this situation again, gimme a call and I’ll make it worth your while,” he says before squeezing past him and out of the washrooms.  

His heart racing, Sherlock busts through the side door of the club and out into the dark alley. It’s a chilly night, enough that he can see his frenzied breaths in the dark of the night. Everything hits him like a brick; he grips tight to the cold brick wall as he doubles over and pukes. Beads of sweat trickle down his temples and neck. Stumbling over, he slides down the wall to sit on the harsh cobblestones and brings his knees into his chin. He can’t hold back the tears any longer and they begin to stream slowly down his ashen face.

He looks up as a short man with a cane limps by.

Sherlock’s heart hinders.

Stumbling to his feet he peers over the corner; the man’s sandy hair looks like gold as he walks under each street lamp before he rounds the corner and out of sight. Sherlock staggers down the street after him.

He follows the man until they are all but four city blocks from 221B Baker Street and he enters a flat. Sherlock wanders over to the large red door; a nameplate under the buzzer reads ‘Watson’.

 

 

Sherlock stands by the window of 221B; looking down over the bustling street, hoping he might see that figure walk past. The thought that he perhaps might never see John again absolutely crushes Sherlock. He wishes he didn’t need the drugs as much as this, but he does. He wishes he could’ve chosen his love over it, but he couldn’t. He wishes he could be happy again, but he can’t. Is it possible John could ever come back to him? Maybe if Sherlock put on a clean shirt, combed his hair, and surprised him, John would remember what they had and come home. These thoughts have been running through Sherlock’s mind for almost two weeks. Tomorrow would mark two months of him being completely alone.

 

 

The next night, amped up with some Broker’s Gin and a big batch of H, Sherlock finds himself fumbling down the street. He wears his old coat with its collar turned up like he always used to, but underneath he is merely dressed in a dirty pair of ripped jeans and a stained t-shirt that was once white. His hair is unwashed and he hasn’t showered in a many days, his pores screaming to be cleansed. He stumbles up to the big red door he is both dreading and eager for.

He knocks.

No answer.

He knocks again.

No answer.

Running a hand through his greasy, dishevelled hair he looks up at the night sky. The stars shine up through the vast cosmos, exactly the same as the night he and John walked through the streets together. Sherlock remembers how John had teased him about not knowing about the solar system, and a stray tear rolls down his cheek. Wiping it away he leans in the doorway and waits.

An hour or two later two people come walking down the street, one with a cane and a limp. John and the blonde woman attached to his arm are laughing until they notice a tall figure cowering in the shadows by their door, causing them to hesitate. John’s face falls and his heart sinks as Sherlock steps out into view.

 _Look at her,_ Sherlock thinks, _of course he’s found someone new. Someone who won’t constantly hurt him. He’s moved on._

Sherlock’s eyes fix themselves on the ground as he chokes out a chuckle to mask his pain.

“This was a bad idea,” he whispers before turning abruptly and scurrying back down the road.

“No, _wait!_ Let me explain…” calls John after him. Pain is strewn across his face and his heart swells.

The woman with him tenderly pats his shoulder.

“That was him wasn’t it?” she coos softly. John replies with a simple nod. “Then what are you waiting for?”

“What do you mean?” John asks.

“Go after him.”

“ _No,_ Harry. You don’t under-“

“You love him. He obviously still loves you. So, _what?”_

“Are you trying to give me love advice? _You?_ My single lesbian sister?”

“Hey, now. Don’t be a prat. Listen, when you showed up at my doorstep two months ago I told you I’d help you in any way you needed. And I never expected _you_ to help _me_ as much as you have, baby brother. Now let me help you. Clara and I were together for a long time, and we _never_ had what I just saw between you two. You were happy once, what changed?”

_“Everything.”_

 

Sherlock lumbers up the stairs; face hot and puffy. He paces fuming. Picking up a vase he hurls it against the wall. Then a lamp. Then throws an old bottle before picking up the half empty one of gin and empties it completely.

“What in heavens?!” shrieks Mrs. Hudson appearing at the door.

 _“Get out!”_ snaps Sherlock.

“What is goi-“

 _“GET OUT!”_ Sherlock chucks the now empty bottle and it shatters against the wall near Mrs. Hudson’s head. She yelps, flinching, and scurries back down the stairs.

Falling to his mattress he pulls out his spoon and syringe. As quick as possible he prepares a batch and injects. But it’s not enough, he needs more. He injects a second time and then a third.

 

 

John comes limping up the stairs and enters the sitting room. His cane drops to the floor with a clatter as he sees Sherlock haemorrhaging on the ground, eyes in the back of his head, and puke in his mouth.

“MRS. HUDSON!” he screams running over to him, “MRS. HUDSON!!”

He props Sherlock up into his lap and tries to clear out his windpipe.

“Call an ambulance!!!” John shouts when she arrives seconds later. 

John tries to hold Sherlock’s jerking body still, his tears flowing freely.

“Don’t do this to me,” he chokes out between sobs, “you complete idiot. You _can’t._ I _need_ you. Sherlock. _Please.”_


	10. Chapter 10

          The early afternoon sunlight contours Sherlock’s gaunt face as an IV languidly drips beside his hospital bed. Mrs. Hudson and Molly sit on a stiff blue couch at the other side of the room while John sits in a rusty metal chair at Sherlock’s side. After a while Mrs. Hudson drifts of to sleep and Molly wraps an arm around her shoulders.

          John is weighted with guilt, blaming himself for all that has happened. His grey eyes are puffy and red-rimmed and beads of cool sweat form by his hair line.

          “None of this is your fault, John,” Molly whispers as not to wake the exhausted landlord in her arms. “I’m serious,” she continues, “Nobody could have prevented this, I mean; I tried phoning him for weeks and weeks, but nothing. He was too far gone”.

          “Yeah,” he mumbles in response but not truly believing it.

          Both their attentions are turned towards the door as a dishevelled and disarrayed Greg Lestrade comes bustling in; rousing Mrs. Hudson from her nap. As his eyes fall on Sherlock he grasps at a nearby table to keep his balance. A wavered sigh escapes him as he runs a trembling hand through his salt and pepper hair.

          “Good lord,” he grumbless to himself, “What’ve you done?”

          Lestrade then shuffles over to sit on the arm of the blue couch, hardly removing his eyes from Sherlock. Looking down at Molly he can see that she is distraught and offers his hand which she convivially takes.  He gently caresses the back of her hand with his thumb as he tucks a loose lock of hair behind her ear.

          Sherlock stirs, immediately sitting up and gaging. His eyes go wide and John quickly grabs an empty bowl from the bed side table and places it in his lap just in time. John sits on the side of his bed rubbing Sherlock’s back maternally as he is purged of all stomach content and as he finishes John strokes his hair.

          “Alright?” John whispers in Sherlock’s ear wiping his mouth with a towel, which he replies with a slight nod.

          Taking the bowl, John goes to the bathroom to clean up, returning to sit in the bed with him.

          “I didn’t think you’d come for me,” whispers Sherlock quietly enough to ensure only John can hear.

          “I should have come sooner,” he replies with a kiss on the cheek.

“How are you feeling?” Molly asks.

          “Like heaven,” Sherlock replies gruffly, slightly green in the face and his sweaty hand in John’s.

          The door opens once more and a middle aged doctor with Clark Kent glasses enters whilst reviewing his charts.

          “Glad to see you’re awake, Mr. Holmes. You had everyone worried for a while there. My name is Doctor Fitzgerald, you’re lucky to have so many people who love you,” he says suavely as he smiles over at everyone in the room before pulling up a metal chair to talk to Sherlock more directly. “You were brought in last night after overdosing on heroin. The overdose was unlikely but all that alcohol in your system acted as a sort of catalyst. If you weren’t brought in when you were, I’m afraid you most likely wouldn’t have made it, Mr. Holmes. Now, you’ll have to stay in hospital for roughly 5 days, although it all depends on how quickly you recover. You are going to feel like absolute shite for the next little while and it’ll be at its worst probably in another day or so.” Sherlock sits with glazed eyes, trying to focus, as John nods along, “You’ll feel noxious, achy, irritable, insomniac, and feverish. Some even fall into a bit of a depression though these symptoms should fade within a week, although some have symptoms that last up to a month or two. We recommend that, once you’re discharged, someone come and stay with you to help you refrain from a relapse.”

          “Yes,” John starts, “I won’t be leaving him.”

          “Good,” Dr. Fitzgerald continues, “just one more thing, Mr. Holmes. Visitors can’t stay past seven unless they are family. Other than that, I’ll let you rest.”

          As the doctor exits the room John notices a man in the hall that he recognizes.

          “Excuse me for a moment,” he whispers before getting up and walking out of the room.

          Marching towards the waiting room his face reddens and his fists clench. He grabs the man by the jacket lapels and thrusts him against the wall, the glass of a call board behind him cracks.

          “WHERE THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN?” John screams at Mycroft.

          “Busy.” He says coolly.

          “Oh, _busy._ Well, I guess that totally justifies leaving your own _flesh and blood_ to wither away and practically _kill_ himself!”

          “John, you must understa-“

          Before the elder Holmes can get another word in John punches him in the face so hard people around them gasp.

          “If I see you again I won’t be so kind,” John snarls before letting Mycroft go with a huff.

          As John gets back to the room he takes a moment outside to try and calm himself. As he enters the others are getting ready to leave; they exchange quick hugs and heart felt moments before they exit; Molly on Greg’s arm.

          Now that they are alone John sits facing Sherlock on the bed, timid to meet his eye contact.

          “It was Harry,” John blurts out with a croak, “you ran off before I could explain that it was my sister; Harry.” His eyes finally flick up, tears brimming.

          “Honestly, I can’t remember much, but I remember her face. I should have known, she looks just like you, only prettier.”

          “Oi, what are you trying to say?” he jokes.

          And they laugh. And it comes as a surprise to both of them. Neither had felt authentic hearty laughter in what felt like years.

 

 

          The next few days are hell for the both of them; filled with fuming arguments, pain – physical and emotional --, and harsh words said by both of them.

          John tried to stay strong on the many occasions Sherlock fought with him, on the edge of slipping. A few time attendees had to intervene and put him in restraints as John could only stand by helplessly as Sherlock’s shouts and cries rattled through his brain.

          Eventually, after the fourth day, Sherlock became less agitated and more collected. The worst of the storm had past. The next two days were filled with apologies, stolen kisses, and very few rows.

          Throughout the week John hardly leaves Sherlock’s side. Most nights he sleeps on that stiff couch with scratchy hospital blankets and only goes home or to 221B Baker St to collect new clothes for the pair of them. He is determined to keep Sherlock safe even if it gets unbearable.

          “How are we feeling today?” Dr. Fitzgerald says on the seventh morning.

          “Better,” Sherlock replies truthfully, colour tinting his cheeks, “I haven’t vomited in the past two day, I feel less weak, and less anxious. Of course I’m not ready to run a marathon, but I’m alright.”

          “Good to hear. Looking over your charts your vitals all seem to be in good condition, you should be able to go home later in the day. But I want to see you back in my office next week, I don’t want you falling off the wagon, you hear?”

          “Of course,” Sherlock says with a slight smile as John sits with a grin of his own.

  

 

          “C’mon, love,” John says as he helps Sherlock out of the cab.

          Bags in tow they climb the familiar old creaky stairs of 221B Baker. As they enter they are both surprised at the state of the place. It’s – almost – as if nothing ever happened. Mostly all the furniture has been returned; even the stupid deer skull wearing headphones hangs contently on the wall. Mrs. Hudson exits the kitchen with a tray of tea which she places on the table. Without a word Sherlock walks over and gives her a long hug, clinging to her like a child would his mother.

          “Thank you,” he whispers before kissing her cheek and letting go.

          “Oh, not a problem, dearie. I just had to put in a few favours.”

 

 

          The next morning the two lie in bed, the early morning light caressing Sherlock’s regular pale skin. He sleeps on his side facing John who is wide awake and looking over everything he loves about that man. His dishevelled, bouncy curls that fall aimlessly over the silk pillow case. His forever prominent clavicle that creates a sort of cavity in his shoulder. His skin, his fluttering eyelashes, his peaked lips; everything.

          John reaches over and grazes his fingertips lightly up Sherlock’s limp arm from fingertip to elbow, from elbow to shoulder, from shoulder to chin, from chin to lips…

          With a deep chuckle Sherlock’s eyes drift open and a smile spreads across his face.

          They stare into one another’s eyes without speaking. Sherlock’s eyes are an enigma; how could so many colours possibly fit in such a small cortex? The deep blue outer rings, the mixture of light blues and greys throughout, and that explosion of gold surrounding the pupil. Devastating.

          John shimmies forward so that their noses are all but millimetres from touching. Then, slowly, they kiss. John sucks tenderly on Sherlock’s lower lip as Sherlock in return grazes his tongue overs John’s top. Sherlock’s fingers feel like fire on John’s longing skin.

          It’s not long until John’s tearing open a condom.

          Lying on his back, Sherlock bites at him bottom lip as John slowly pushes inside. Their rhythm is slow, melodic, as they absorb the essence of each other until they both explode with fiery passion.

          They lie sweaty and entangled in each other on the smooth powder blue sheets.

          “You know,” Sherlock starts in his low baritone, “I see that look in your eyes when you look at me. All that guilt. I want you to know, John; none of what happened was your fault. You prevented it and you stayed with me for as long as you possibly could, so thank you for that. But don’t blame yourself, please, because you saved me.”

          John sits silently for a moment looking up at the ceiling as Sherlock studies his face.

          “After I left,” mummers John, “my nightmares came back. But this time, instead of them being about the war, they were about you. You dying, you with other people, you moving on. They hurt more, and I didn’t think that was possible.”

          “And now?”

          “Gone. It’s finally peaceful,” says John looking over at Sherlock with a grin.

 

 

          John wakes in the middle of the night to finds himself in an empty bed. He sits up looking around the room for Sherlock but he is alone.

          Getting up, he pulls his satin blue robe over his red y fronts and pads out towards the kitchen.

          As he enters he finds Sherlock in just his jim-jam bottoms retrieving a tea mug from the cupboard.

          “Make sure it’s chamomile,” John says from the doorway causing Sherlock to look over his shoulder at him and grin, “someone once told me earl grey does nothing for sleep.”

          “Oh, is that so?” Sherlock rumbles with a smirk getting a second mug.

          The two sit down on the couch with their steaming mugs.

          “Why can’t you sleep?” John asks, blowing at his tea.

          “Insomnia, I think. I’m sure it’s just from the withdrawal still, but it should go away soon.”

          “If this happens again wake me up. I like these late night tea parties.”

          They chuckle before John’s face goes serious.

          “I was so scared,” the vulnerabity in John’s voice makes Sherlock’s eyes flick up . John stares into the depths of his mug while Sherlock watching his face keenly. “When I first flew over to Afghanistan, it was terrifying. I was so young, so naïve. I can still hear the machine guns sometimes, like hail falling on a tin roof…”

          Sherlock listened intently as John, finally, told him about the war.

 

 

 

The End.


	11. Alternate Ending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING:  
> this alternate ending contains suicide. If that may be a trigger for you, please, please, don't continue.

“Don’t do this to me,” he chokes out between sobs, “you complete idiot. You _can’t._ I _need_ you. Sherlock. _Please.”_

As John whimpers down at the man he will eternally love Sherlock continues to spasm and jerk in his arms. More vomit spills from his mouth and for a moment his eyes latch onto John’s.

Everything Sherlock wanted to say – that he was a fool, that he was sorry, that he loved him more than anything -- was written in this look.

Then, with a choke, and one more violent spasm, Sherlock’s body falls limp.

John throat constrains around an anguished sob. His fingers entwine themselves in Sherlock’s sweaty mop of black hair, rocking him back and forth in his arms.

The sound of distant sirens fills John’s racked brain. He hesitantly lumbers to his feet and tears a sheet off the window before placing it lightly over the late Sherlock Holmes. He trudges up the stairs to what used to be his bedroom. There was nothing left besides a few sweaters and a photograph of the two of them. He picks it up off the floor, its glass pane cracked in the corner sending an aperture across Sherlock’s content face. He enters the en suite and locks the door behind him as he hears the doctors arriving a floor below him. Sitting down in the claw foot tub, fully clothed, he pulls his pistol from the back of his jeans. Taking a shaky breath he places it in his mouth and closes his eyes.

Everything is in slow motion. Everything is silent. Sherlock lies on his side in bed in the early morning facing John. The white bed sheet dances in the soft morning sun light as it wafts gently through the air before settling down over him. A massive grin is plastered across his face as he looks into John’s eyes.  Sherlock’s eyes are an enigma; how could so many colours possibly fit in such a small cortex? John watches as Sherlock’s and his fingers interlock and then dissemble; skating continually around each other’s.

John opens his tear filled eyes and he’s back in the tub with the gun in his mouth.

 _Hello, old friend,_ he thinks.

 

 

 

**_*click*_ **


End file.
